


Patchwork Hearts

by little_librarian



Series: Wander Into My Heart [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Found Family, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_librarian/pseuds/little_librarian
Summary: “It’s warmer here than it ever was in that house,” Jaskier confides.It’s freezing in the crumbling witcher keep, but Geralt knows exactly what he means. He thinks of how different this winter is, how he used to sleep alone and never raced a laughing girl across the battlements. He kisses Jaskier, slow and deep, and presses him into the bed.“You make it warm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s neck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Wander Into My Heart [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607377
Comments: 99
Kudos: 2590
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Patchwork Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where this is going anymore, I just know that I'm writing random scenes and trying to make them work together

Ciri is not the sort of princess to cry over skinned knees. She has Calanthe’s determination and Pavetta’s kindness. She does not let her birth status define her, and Geralt has no doubt that she would have been a good queen.

She trains at Kaer Morhen like a young witcher would, relentless and unafraid. They stick to sword fighting and pretend like there isn’t some ancient force humming in her veins, for none of them know how to even begin teaching her to control it.

Ciri takes her cuts and bruises with dignity and never lets a hit keep her down. Jaskier insists on treating her aches with various oils and salves, and forces the same treatment on Geralt when Ciri tries to protest that a witcher does not need such ministrations. Jaskier presses hard on his sore muscles then skims his fingers feather-light over the same spots, and Geralt pushes him up against a wall the second Ciri leaves the room.

Lambert says something once about Ciri being good for a girl, and she spends the rest of the day training twice as hard. Vesemir glares at Lambert and reminds Ciri that where the witchers had potions and mutations to help them along, she excels with only her skill. He whispers something in her ear that has her eyeing Lambert and giggling, and then he teaches her a new parrying technique.

They are all proud of her, even if they don’t say it. Praise has always been nonexistent in Kaer Morhen; the reward for doing well was not dying. Jaskier doesn’t share the same qualms, so he rolls his eyes at the witchers and writes Ciri a song.

(“I’ll hurt you,” Ciri says when she refuses to demonstrate her scream. She looks at Jaskier, watching from a bench at the edge of the training ground, and Geralt remembers blood dripping from his ears. “And it only works when I’m frightened.”

“Will it scare you if I stab the bard?” Lambert asks, and Jaskier flips him off. “Okay, I’m stabbing him.”

No one gets stabbed, but Geralt does get to glare murderously at Lambert while Vesemir calls them all children.

“It’s all right,” Ciri says. “Yennefer will be here soon. She’ll teach me.”

Geralt doesn’t ask how she can be so certain, but, for some reason, he believes her.)

***

The land around Kaer Morhen is littered with unmarked graves, old enough that nature has grown back over them. Lambert will never admit it, but he knows where more of the graves are than anyone else. Geralt has walked with him through cemeteries, has seen how Lambert holds himself a bit differently, like he’s watching for ghosts that will never appear, and he notices how Lambert walks the same way across certain parts of the fortress’ grounds.

So when Lambert turns to Jaskier, who’s tagging along and singing while the Witchers hunt for deer, Geralt knows he means it when he says, “You’re standing on a grave.”

Jaskier stops walking and goes silent. He doesn’t step to the side—Lambert doesn’t mean for him to move, not when he himself walked over the same spot. No, Lambert intends to frighten.

Jaskier stares at Lambert, unblinking. His face had seconds ago been bright and smiling, and now Geralt can only call his expression morose.

“Aren’t we always, around here?” Jaskier says quietly.

Lambert stares back and nods once, like some sort of understanding has passed between them. Jaskier resumes singing when they resume walking, and Lambert for once offers no protest.

***

It’s Eskel’s turn to prepare dinner, but he’s already seated at the table when Geralt enters with Ciri, Vesemir, and Lambert. Jaskier had snuck off some time ago and remains unaccounted for.

Vesemir squints at Eskel. “Did we run out of food?” he asks sarcastically.

“The bard kicked me out,” Eskel tells them, nodding towards the open doorway that leads to the kitchen. That, at least, explains where Jaskier vanished to.

“You have plenty of food,” Jaskier announces like he’s been waiting for a cue. “The trouble is none of you know what to do with it.”

He emerges from the kitchen balancing bowls of stew that smell better than anything Geralt’s ever eaten at Kaer Morhen. Ciri’s practically vibrating in her seat at the prospect of good food.

As he serves them, Lambert teases, “Look at you, being a good housewife.” He never did care to notice the line between joking and mean.

But Jaskier has developed a thick skin and far too much courage, and he thumps the back of Lambert’s head. “I’m no one’s housewife,” he says. “If you like, you can eat the _slop_ Eskel was preparing before I _mercifully_ took over.”

Eskel wisely does not respond to the slight at his cooking.

“Fuck,” Lambert says, and Jaskier is fluent enough in witcher-speak to interpret that as an apology.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Eskel asks.

Jaskier seats himself next to Geralt. He hesitates for a second, which Geralt finds odd, then says, “I spent a lot of time in the kitchens as a boy. Our cook figured that if I was going to hide there, I may as well learn something useful.”

Kitchens, a cook, learning out of circumstance rather than of necessity—Geralt recognizes this picture and is vaguely surprised. He knows Jaskier has a past, but it, like Geralt’s own history, is something that they don’t talk about. The other witchers have drawn the same conclusion, but they’re smart enough to defer to Geralt.

“You’re nobility?” Geralt asks.

“I _was_ ,” Jaskier says pointedly. When he refuses to elaborate as he normally would, Geralt knows that this is something they will talk about in private. He still isn’t a fan of hard, honest conversation, but it will mean something to Jaskier.

“Jaskier, can you cook every night?” Ciri, thank the gods, has learned a sense of tact that witchers are never taught, and she knows when to change the subject.

Jaskier laughs and shatters the tension, reaching around Geralt’s back to tug gently on her hair. He moves closer in the process, so Geralt takes the chance to lean their shoulders together and rest his free hand on Jaskier’s thigh, hoping to leech away his obvious discomfort.

(Jaskier was a viscount, Geralt learns. He holds the bard and listens to the story of a boy who grew up in a hateful home, who took refuge in song, who learned that monsters can be men.

“It’s warmer here than it ever was in that house,” Jaskier confides. 

It’s freezing in the crumbling witcher keep, but Geralt knows exactly what he means. He thinks of how different this winter is, how he used to sleep alone and never raced a laughing girl across the battlements. He kisses Jaskier, slow and deep, and presses him into the bed. 

“You make it warm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s neck.)

***

Geralt hears a portal ripping open, and then Yennefer is standing at the foot of the bed saying, “Your wards are shit.”

“Tell that to Vesemir,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier mutters something incoherent into the pillow, curls closer against Geralt, and blinks open his eyes. When he catches sight of Yennefer, he yelps and scrambles to sit up.

Yennefer smirks at him.

“Witch.”

“Nuisance.”

“You know, I once had a nightmare _exactly_ like this.”

“Behave,” Geralt says as he slides out of bed. Yennefer doesn’t look away while he pulls on the nearest pants, and Jaskier is torn between glaring at her and leering at Geralt. “What of Nilfgaard?”

“Searching Toussaint.” Yen rests her hands on her hips and tilts her head. “Or perhaps Poviss. You do so like to wander.”

Toussaint and Poviss are on opposite ends of the Continent—she’s created an intricate goose chase, designed to keep Nilfgaard trekking aimlessly for ages.

“Thank you,” Geralt says.

Yennefer refuses to make eye contact. “I did it for Cirilla.”

There is silence for but a moment, until Jaskier says, “Well, that’s settled. Will you be staying long?” Yen hums noncommittally, so he continues, “Only, I need to know if I’ll be serving virgin’s blood with dinner, or whatever it is witches eat.”

“They’ve got you in the kitchens?” Yen snarks.

“They serve themselves _gruel_ at best,” he complains. “And my time is far better spent cooking _actual food_ than playing with swords.”

It’s like a code, Geralt realizes. Begrudging care couched in stubborn dislike. He suspects they enjoy trading barbs more than they’ll ever admit.

Yen looks pointedly at the bed and says, voice lilting, “I rather thought you would welcome the sword practice,” and Geralt reaches his limit.

“I’ll show you to Ciri,” Geralt says, escorting Yennefer out as quickly as he can. He’s still lacking a shirt, but it’s early yet and he plans on returning to bed.

“Excuse you!” Jaskier calls after them, indignant and always after the last word. “I have _never_ needed practice!”

It’s a horrible comeback, but it makes Yen exhale a little laugh.

(“What are you doing?” Vesemir demands.

Yennefer stands in the courtyard, arms outstretched while she whispers Elder words. She glances over her shoulder and says, “Your wards are shit.”

Vesemir watches her for a moment, then sighs. “Well, you’re not wrong.”)

***

Geralt wakes up alone. A year ago this was normal, but now it is unsettling, for Jaskier never rises first and Geralt has developed a habit of relishing the bard’s warm, trusting presence in the minutes before he must dress for training.

A quiet humming reaches his ears, and he follows the sound down to Ciri’s room. He stands in the doorway and listens to the lullaby, notices the faint, salty smell of tears. Jaskier sits on the bed with Ciri’s head pillowed on his lap, stroking her hair in time to his song.

Yennefer approaches and says, “He’ll spoil her.” She speaks quietly so as not to wake Ciri again, and she doesn't try to beckon Jaskier away.

Geralt remembers being Ciri’s age and dreaming of the boys who died in agony, remembers finding no reprieve in waking. He knows now that being strong doesn't have to mean being alone, and that there's no shame in comfort.

“Let him,” Geralt says.

Ciri will be the best of them all.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this [awesome edit](https://kickassfu.tumblr.com/post/190933460561/yen-looks-pointedly-at-the-bed-and-says-voice) based on this series by [kickassfu](https://kickassfu.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! 
> 
> If you’ve made it this far in the series (thank you!!!) and still wanna scream with me, I have a tumblr: the-little-librarian


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